Silence followed—but not the kind that ends things. It settled around us like space itself: wide, dark, full of unspoken things.
"You still talk about her like she's where everything in you begins and ends," I said quietly.
He let out a breath of a laugh. "She is. Always has been. She has been an exceptional mother. When I was a kid, she called my dad her North Star. The one fixed point in her sky. dead but never gone. Even now—she's forgotten birthdays, names, her own reflection some days... but never him. Never the man she danced with "
Something ached deep in me. I didn't mean to reach for his hand. But I did. And he didn't let go.
He smiled, but it was the kind of smile people wear when they're holding back tears. "She used to call him her center of gravity.Said he kept her grounded, even when life tried to spin her off course."
He glanced up, the ceiling lights reflecting faintly in his eyes. "They used to go dancing, you know. Real dancing—ballrooms, galas, old vinyl records. She said that was their place, where the world fell away and it was just the two of them, one step at a time."
I felt something twist inside me.
"That's why I signed up," he added, his voice soft. "I thought... if I could recreate that memory, maybe I could give her a piece of him again. Something solid. Something beautiful."
It was so heartbreakingly sweet, so tender and quietly heroic—it felt exactly like him.
"Sometimes. Not always. But sometimes..." He smiled. "Sometimes she closes her eyes, and I can tell she's there. With him. Like she's stepped through a wormhole in her mind."
I leaned against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He shifted just slightly—closer. Steadier.
"She still chooses him," I said. "Even in the dark."
He nodded. "That's what I want, you know? That kind of love. Not fireworks. Not chaos. Just... gravity. Something that pulls you home, even when your whole world's drifting."
"You'll find it," I whispered.
He turned his face slightly toward mine, so close I could feel his breath against my hair.
"Maybe," he said.
Just like that, the moment expanded—quiet and infinite. We didn't speak again. We didn't need to.
Later, he drove me home beneath a sky so impossibly clear it felt like the stars were leaning in to listen. The world was hushed, the kind of quiet that only comes when something sacred is unfolding. When we reached my porch, he cut the engine but didn't move right away. The soft glow from the dashboard lit his face, his jaw tense, his hands loose in his lap—like he was holding something fragile inside him, trying not to let it spill.
He finally stepped out and walked me to the steps, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets like he didn't trust them not to reach for something he couldn't have.
"Thanks for coming with me today," he said, voice low, almost reverent.
"Thank you for letting me," I whispered, because it felt like something more than a favor—it felt like a gift.
He looked at me then, really looked, and there was something wide and tender in his eyes. "You know," he murmured, "You've got a supernova feel."
I blinked, startled. "A supernova?"
He gave a small, sheepish smile. "Yeah. A star that burns so brightly it lights up everything around it. Beautiful, impossible to ignore... and rare."
I didn't mean to—I didn't even think—I just stepped into him and wrapped my arms around his waist.
He stiffened, just for a second, like he didn't expect to be held. And then he sank into it, into me, like someone who'd been holding his breath for years and had just found oxygen.
He held me like I was the gravity keeping him tethered to Earth. Not too tight, but all in. Like he knew how easily beautiful things could slip away.
Neither of us noticed the silhouette across the street, watching from the shadows.
But even if we had...
I would have stayed right there, wrapped around him, because in that moment, I felt something I hadn't in forever— peace, safety... and the quiet kind of happiness that doesn't ask to be earned.
